by Liz Ireland
The elves had worked up a routine to a medley of songs loosely gathered under the thematic umbrella “Christmas on the Silver Screen.” They’d lacked a wow finish until someone had dreamed up the idea of turning “There’s No Business like Show Business” into a holiday number. Until you’ve seen and heard thirty elves sparkling, stomping, and ringing with a gusto to rival even Ethel Merman’s, you don’t know show biz.
Due to the elves’ verve and enthusiasm, their vests often needed repairs, and today was no exception. A quick run-through had jostled dozens of bells loose. I set to work with a needle and thread. This was a big show for the group—entertaining at the lodge was considered an honor—and nerves were on edge. One elf had misplaced his cowbell and had a meltdown until the thing was found behind a poinsettia. I gave the group a final pep talk, assuring them they would be a hit, something that I hoped more than knew.
After leaving them, I headed to the lodge’s cavernous main hall, which was situated in the back half of the first floor where the tea was being held. I hadn’t even greeted our host yet. Amory Claus was a Claus through and through, large and round, with florid cheeks and bright blue eyes. With his thick, dark, and neatly trimmed beard, he reminded me of Sebastian Cabot, the actor who’d played the butler on Family Affair. A cousin of Nick, Lucia, and Martin, Amory was next down in the pecking order of Clauses.
He smiled at me in a way that was more wry than merry. “Hello, April. Sneaking in the back way again?”
His wife, Midge, must have told him what had happened at the Kinder Caroling. Scuttlebutt traveled fast on this mountain.
“I was checking on the cloggers. I hope everyone enjoys them.”
Amory stroked his beard like an old sage. “Well, everyone will pretend they do. Of course, they would have genuinely enjoyed the Swingin’ Santas.”
This had been a sore spot with Amory and Midge ever since I’d chosen the elf cloggers over the Swingin’ Santas, who’d performed at this lodge event the past three years in a row. It seemed only right to give some other group a chance.
Amory’s attention had already moved on. “Nick’s not here yet. I suppose he wants to make a big entrance.” He framed his face with crazed jazz hands and said, “Santa!”
“He doesn’t like to draw attention to himself; you know that.”
He darted a hand out to reach for a mixed drink off a passing tray. “I know he acts modest, but we’ll see. That red suit does something to men’s heads. Nick wasn’t on the job two weeks before he started issuing ridiculous dictates. It’s always been enough that my family managed Kringle Lodge. This year I’m supposed to do make-work jobs in addition to everything else.” He sniffed. “Overseer of Santaland Plumbing! That shows what your husband thinks of me.”
“Plumbing’s important,” I said.
“It’s a no-glory job. You think he wasn’t sending a message to me? People only think of plumbing when it’s not working. The rest of the time it’s a joke.”
I didn’t want to argue. Amory was the loudest Claus and his dislike of Nick’s Claus Employment Policy was well known.
“It was all totally unnecessary,” he said. “There’s hardly enough jobs even for all the elves to do around here, without us Clauses being shoehorned into the workforce. Mark my words—pretty soon you’ll see a rise in elf unemployment and dissatisfaction. It wouldn’t surprise me if this little crime wave we’re having proved to be the first sign of that.”
“Two murders is hardly a ‘little’ crime wave.”
Amory wasn’t listening. He polished off his drink in one slug. “Dear old Nick even makes his wife work,” he grumbled, “although of course you were given a plum job.”
“As opposed to a plumbing job,” Martin said, sidling up to us.
I could barely conceal my relief at having someone rescue me from this increasingly awkward conversation. “I don’t mind working,” I said. “I miss running my inn.”
“I assume you were better at that than at arranging entertainment,” Amory said. “Elf cloggers! This is going to be an endurance test.”
Before I could defend my elves, our host stomped off to greet another guest.
“Dear Cousin Amory,” Martin said, leaning in. “How long was he giving you an earful about his grievances?”
“I suppose Nick’s work policy did seem like a burden.”
“It’s not as if Amory’s crawling in the sewers himself.” Martin laughed. “Better chance of getting a camel through the eye of a needle than squeezing Amory Claus through a manhole entrance.”
Amory had a point, though. “It is an added responsibility. And he has the lodge to take care of.”
I expected Martin to respond, but he wasn’t even listening to me. His attention, like everyone else’s, was on the doors where Christopher and his mother had just entered. In the corner, a pianist had been playing “The Christmas Song,” but now even the piano fell silent. Christopher was in a black velvet suit to match Tiffany’s full-length jet-black dress and veil, which was attached to her head with a tiara of sapphires.
“Good grief,” Martin whispered. “If you’ll pardon the expression. It’s like Death has crashed the party.”
Poor Christopher. He was clearly uncomfortable with everyone gawping at him, but he was sticking to his mother’s side while the stares were on them.
Midge, Amory’s wife, bustled forward in a large pink satin dress with a tulle shawl collar that made her look a little like a cotton candy cone. She gestured impatiently for the pianist to resume playing. A bouncy version of the “Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy” covered whatever she said to greet the newcomers.
“Maybe Lucia’s right and Tiffany should be sent to a psychiatric clinic,” Martin said. “Showing up at a Christmas party dressed like Doom isn’t something a well-adjusted person does, even if they are grieving.”
I wondered if grief was the whole story. What if Tiffany had some crazy plan to stop the tea and accuse Nick of pushing his brother into a crevasse? To torture myself more, I imagined Jake Frost arresting my husband right here on the suspicion of three murders—his brother, the elf, and the snowman.
After all, maybe I should be relieved Nick had decided to absent himself from this event. It looked bad, but not as bad as having his sister-in-law publicly denounce him would have.
“Should we go say hello to Christopher?” I asked.
As I spoke, however, several cousins of Christopher’s age arrived and lured him away with them, probably a more welcome intervention than Martin and mine would have been.
“That just leaves the child’s mother hovering like the angel of death.”
I tried to make excuses for her. “Lots of people wear mourning.”
“Sure, in Victorian novels.”
Tiffany turned then and spotted me across the room. The hubbub of party chatter had resumed, yet I felt her hundred-watt stare almost as if she were standing in front of everyone saying, There stands the woman who married my husband’s murderer.
“You okay?” Martin asked.
I gave myself a shake. “Just worried about my cloggers. The show should be starting soon.”
Martin shook his head. “I can see why you’d want to put your own stamp on things, but you don’t have to go overboard. Everybody liked the Swingin’ Santas.”
I groaned. “Not you, too.”
“I always enjoyed dancing to them, but then this year . . .” He sighed. “Tiffany’s obviously in no mood to dance, Lucia prefers reindeer, and you look as if you’re waiting for a meteor to strike the Earth.” He glanced around. “I was hoping your friend Juniper would show up, but—”
My brother-in-law’s face paled, and he looked with something akin to horror at the doorway. My immediate fear—that Tiffany really was going to make a spectacle of herself and cause trouble for Nick—died when I saw my husband himself standing there.
Not alone, though. He was with Therese. Very much with her.
They’d just arrived, and they’d obviousl
y arrived together. Nick was dressed in his best red Santa Suit, while Therese wore a low-cut, tight-fitting, full-length dress in bright red satin, with spiked heels that brought her close to Nick’s height. It looked as if they’d coordinated outfits—Santa and his sexy helper. They appeared to be arm in arm, although on closer inspection she had merely placed her hand in the crook of his arm, perhaps just before they walked in. Or maybe they’d been like that for some time.
Either way, Nick wasn’t shrugging that well-manicured hand away now.
Immediately, curious gazes turned toward me, people no doubt wondering if I would melt in humiliation or explode into tears. But before I could react, music blared over the loudspeakers set up in the corners of the room and the spectacle of thirty jingling, clogging, singing elves danced into the room.
Chapter 11
I should have booked the Swingin’ Santas.
I had to hand it to the elf cloggers, though; they gave it their all. So much so that the hall reverberated with jangling and stomping and my head began to pound in time with those pointy-toed wooden shoes. It was hard to take my eyes off the spectacle of that many small beings hopping, stomping, sparkling. And yet . . .
Was I being paranoid, or did it seem as if no one was really paying attention to the elves? I felt as stiff and uncomfortable as I’d been the moment I’d spotted Nick and Therese together. This wasn’t just Therese stepping into my shoes for a kiddie event to show me up to my mother-in-law. This was her announcing herself to the world as my rival, and demonstrating to all of Santaland—and specifically the gathered Clauses and friends—why Nick had made the wrong choice of bride.
Martin leaned close to me. “Don’t forget to breathe.”
If he hadn’t said that, I might have expired then and there, a victim of suspended respiration. I sucked in air, feeling a rush of oxygen to my head. Then I laughed.
Stop acting like a twit. It was just a stodgy family event, not the junior prom. Of course Therese looked stunning. She was beautiful and had no qualms about showing off her assets. She’d been the Siren of Santaland long before I’d arrived here, yet Nick hadn’t chosen her. He told me he’d never even thought of marrying until he’d gone to Oregon and met me.
I was no Therese, nor did I want to be. I just wanted her to let go of my husband’s arm. She was still standing too close to him in that low-cut dress of hers and clinging to him like a deer tick.
Guess I’d picked the wrong day to wear an outfit that made me look like Grandma’s sofa.
The last strains of “There’s No Business Like Snow Business” rose to a crescendo, and I forced myself to pay attention. When the elves took their bows to healthy if not quite heartfelt applause, though, I couldn’t help glancing at Nick and Therese.
Her hand was still stuck to his arm.
“You think they had some mishap with Krazy Glue?” Martin asked.
I smiled and clapped more enthusiastically for the cloggers. “We might have to get them surgically detached.”
“I’m guessing there was some Galahad impulse behind all this,” Martin said. “That’s the thing few people realize about my brother. Most of the time he’s a quiet, steady fellow. But then he’ll do something big and impulsive and sometimes stupid.”
Like asking a woman to marry him after staying at her hotel for a week.
Would he also have followed an impulse to shove his brother at the very worst moment?
I did not marry a homicidal Santa.
I dragged my gaze away from Nick again and ended up staring into the inscrutable face of Jake Frost.
In the next instant, he was gone.
How had he done that? Was he like a genie who could appear and disappear whenever Constable Crinkles or someone else summoned him? The thought unnerved me.
After the clogging, I sought out the elves and congratulated them on a job well done. Then I returned to the hall and made a beeline for the drinks table, hoping to find something stronger than tea there. Unfortunately, Therese got there before me.
“Oh, hello, April.” She acted surprised to see me. “What a sweet little entertainment you put on for us.”
Her condescension put my back up. “The elves did all the work. Of course they didn’t know they’d have competition.”
“From whom?”
“Some late-arriving attention seekers.”
“I don’t remember seeing anyone else come in.” Mascara-laden lashes blinked innocently. “I thought Nick and I were the late arrivals.”
I swerved away from her, wanting to cut this encounter short before I tackled her in irritation. No need to turn Amory’s party into a scene worthy of a women-in-prison movie. I attempted to maneuver closer to Nick, who of course was in a crowd of people. One thing about being Santa—with that suit on, it’s hard not to be the center of attention. I veered back toward the beverage table instead, after first checking that Therese had vacated the vicinity.
I’d drunk two tumblers of nog when Midge found me. “Wonderful elves, April.”
“Thank you.” I waited for the “but.”
She smiled. “They weren’t as good as the entertainment we’ve had in the past, of course, but I’m sure we’ll appreciate the Swingin’ Santas more next year.”
Would there be a next year, here, for me? I tried to envision surviving a year in Santaland, going through all the motions again . . . and again and again. The prospect would have turned my stomach had I not known I’d have my stretch in Oregon to recharge my battery. At the Coast Inn, I knew what I was doing. I could handle Damaris Sproat, the town council, and anything else life threw at me down there. I enjoyed dealing with all the day-to-day challenges, handling all the routine matters. I even enjoyed changing sheets—getting a room ready and imagining the impression the clean, cozy appearance would have on a weary traveler was one of the most satisfying chores.
I’d dreamed of returning to that world with Nick. Of having a helpmate and confidant. But what if that didn’t happen? Nick could wind up in whatever lockup this strange land would devise for a serial-killing Santa. Perhaps there was a VIP jail here, like Club Fed. Or would he be banished to the Farthest Frozen Reaches, with the monsters, polar bears, and misfits?
“April? Are you all right?”
Midge’s voice snapped me out of my funk.
“Don’t let Therese get to you,” she said.
“I wasn’t thinking of her.”
“Good. My advice? Don’t let anyone even suspect you are. The moment gossip starts, you lose. That’s what Amory always says, anyway. Amory’s very wise—you should remind Nick of that.”
The advice struck me, although not necessarily for the reason Midge intended. “The moment gossip starts, the person being gossiped about loses,” I paraphrased, weighing each word as I spoke.
Midge glanced anxiously at the empty tumbler in my hand. “How many of those have you had?”
“Just two.”
She clucked. “I told Mistletoe to go easy on the hooch, but you know how help is. They don’t have to worry about the bill from Santaland Spirits.”
“Amory doesn’t like his job as the head of plumbing operations, does he?” I asked.
Her breath caught, and she put a hand on my arm. “Honestly, April, I don’t like to pull strings, but if you could just have a word with Nick? It’s inhumane to make Amory spend so much time on storm drains and sewer pipes. He’s been such a loyal member of the family.”
Had he been loyal? I wondered if some of the malicious gossip against Nick could have been instigated by Amory. Revenge against Nick for coming up with the compulsory work policy.
“Was Amory on the snow monster hunt when Chris died?” I asked.
Midge’s face wrinkled in confusion at my change in topic. She dropped her hand. “He was, but he told me he was nowhere close when the accident occurred. Chris had separated from the rest of the group, Amory said. And of course Amory has been so upset about that horrible day. If you could see how he’s suffered with p
ost-traumatic stress. I know he wishes he could have done more to save Chris, who was so brave.”
She added quickly, “Not that Amory’s a coward. He went on the hunt, after all, and nothing compelled him to. He volunteered. But he’s not the hero type to go charging headlong into danger.” Her smile faded almost as fast as it appeared. “It was a terrible accident, and Amory’s always been sure to tell everyone it was an accident. From the very first day he’s been insistent that Nick had nothing to do with Chris’s death. Nothing whatsoever.”
Had he professed Nick’s innocence in Chris’s murder so vociferously that people began to suspect the opposite? That snow monster hunt, I decided, needed looking into.
* * *
The ride back down the mountain with Nick started out peacefully. In the sleigh gliding down the trail, with only the sound of hooves on packed snow and bell collars jangling as accompaniment, I leaned my head back and drank in the sky overhead. Gossamer swaths of green and blue streamed across the heavens, a display of northern lights that seemed tailor-made to distract me from my problems. Look, that sky was telling me. You wouldn’t see this in Oregon....
“I thought your dancing elves did a great job,” Nick said. “Very original . . . for elf clogging.”
The poor elves. Even Santa was lukewarm about their talents.
I sighed and pushed myself up. “You put on quite a show yourself.”
He was holding the reins with two hands—he was always a careful driver—but he looked over at me, eyes off the road for many seconds. “What are you talking about?”
His expression was screwed into such obvious puzzlement that I laughed. “Your arrival with Therese? It created quite a stir.”
“That was her,” he said. “And that dress.”
The red dress would have commanded attention no matter what, given that it fit her like cling wrap. But showing up on the arm of someone else’s husband—Santa Claus’s arm, no less—had to have been calculated. “A little of the hubbub had to do with you standing there with her arm in arm.”